


a man cannot help his training

by interestinggin



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6809263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interestinggin/pseuds/interestinggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>still i sing bonny boys, bonny mad boys</i>
  <br/>
  <i>bedlam boys are bonny</i>
  <br/>
  <i>for they all go bare and they live by the air</i>
  <br/>
  <i>and they want no drink nor money</i>
</p><p>a minific about john, and joan, and the days of youth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a man cannot help his training

**Author's Note:**

> a tiny little ficlet, written for sylvi10 and inspired by the [thirty prompts meme](http://interestinggin.tumblr.com/post/140331578359/conversations-with-the-crows-katehalharry) on tumblr.

johnny is thin wrists and quick hands; he is a struggling, kicking, maniacal mess; he is a black scowl and a curved lip and bitter childish resentment bound up in english skin. joan curses him black and blue and calls him devilborn, changeling, king’s boy, and she does it all with an easy, snaggletoothed smile that he cannot imitate no matter how hard he tries. he runs with an odd little skip in his step, because his boots are too big and his stockings have slipped, and he learns by six to move faster than any other child in the gang.

he has never had clean clothes, not once, and he has never had a haircut, but joan makes sure his face is scrubbed and his hands clean before dinner, and he learns to say grace - or grace of a sort, because here in the north the lords may pray but the commonfolk know there’s another man you call on when in need - _king of darkness, break this bread; lord of nightfall, guard my bones; in your magic keep my name; northern king on faerie throne._

joan holds court in her own little realm by the river, in an old cellar reached by sewer grates, and johnny calls it home; learns to see in the dark and not to check what you’re walking on. they sleep upstairs, in what was once the kitchen, and at night, they tell tales and dance and black joan divides what food they have found - more for the babes, and a slice of any meat left outside for the birds of the king. one window is broken, and the cold air blows in. she talks of paying a man to mend it, but they know she never will.

she brushes johnny’s hair back from his face with a comb and ties it up in a knot with gentle hands.

“johnny,” she says softly, “ah, john lad, sing for your mam, now.” he has a child’s voice, and not a fine one, but he can carry a tune and he sings her _pratty flowers_ and _bedlam boys_ and _reynard on the mountainside_. his mother smiles down at him in the candlelight, and kisses his forehead, bids him sleep.   
  
curled under his cloak, between freckle faced lily sykes and bert ‘hamfist’ timms, johnny closes his eyes. it is gone midnight when he opens them to see joan in her cap and nightdress, standing at the window, pale fingers reaching for the broken pane. she is humming something quiet and sad that johnny does not recognise. her hand catches on a shard, and sends a drop of blood, scarlet red, rolling down the glass.

joan does not seem to notice. she stares out into the dark, into the night, and johnny, rolling onto his back and closing her eyes, hears her crooning in his dreams - _when he comes back, we’ll married be; johnny’s gone for a soldier._


End file.
